Writing letters to body parts isn't conventional, but neither am I.
Yes, I'm talking to you- I know you're afraid I'm going to say something cruel because I talk shit to you constantly. Like it's my job. You're my verbal punching bag. So stop shielding yourself, I'm not going to hit you. This isn't easy, coming from one proud bitch but, I would like to apologize.
Today in yoga when I saw you sneak up and roll over my waistband, I was not happy. Not in the least. You made me look terribly bad in Triangle Pose, you made me less present. You insisted on being an attention stealer. You were testy when someone asked how my "gut" felt and you wouldn't give me an answer and that gave me more reason to curse at you. I've been angry....
But, what I really want to say is; I don't hate you.
Every time I see you, I say mean things. I tell you that you're ugly, that you're fat, that you "need work." I pinch you. Pinching just isn't nice, I learned that lesson long ago after second grade detention which requires scrawling out my actions and apology multiple times on a chalk board (that's not just in movies folks). I know better than to pinch. I also know better than to stick my tongue out at children, but I do that too.....I digress.....
Every time I say something terrible to you, you start believing it. My mind starts believing it and when you're there, working hard, digesting and hiding nicely under my Spanx like a good girl, I turn around and scream "please jiggle less when I'm having sex. THANKS." It's venom, pure venom that I send to you.
I don't hate you, because you house my inconsiderate food combinations, a pot of coffee, Thai food and grapefruits, and never complain like a little bitch who needs to take Tums. I'm sorry for starving you. For telling you, "you'll never go out in public if you don't tighten up" when you've kindly housed my fire, my instinct, and the results of foolish drinking habits and late night Taco Bell.
You're the future home of my hypothetical child. You get along nicely with my kidneys and uterus, you don't fight or try to get them kicked out. You play nice.
I realized today that the things I can't stand about my body are the things I curse at. The things that my eyes ferociously scower. They're the parts that I look at FIRST when my I see my reflection and where almost instantly, I send floods of hateful energy.
That energy BECOMES something. It becomes solid form. Or TRUTH.
I've created the things I hate by hating them in the first place, without reason.
The more I focus on hating my stomach the more "nothing" becomes "something" and all the more reason to continue hating. It's one bitchy cycle. I don't really hate my body. I don't really hate where I'm living, or my feeble bank account. I don't even dislike intensely half of the things I complain about, but by complaining I give myself reason to hate.
Happiness, is my own creation- so I will be happy with my stomach. And my life. At least until tomorrow when I return to being a walking contradiction, cause fuck- sometimes it's OK to throw a "I hate (fill in the blank)" tantrum.
Do you "HATE" anything? AND WHY?